


Zen

by orphan_account



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kong Studios, Phase Four (Gorillaz), Phase One (Gorillaz), Phase Three (Gorillaz), Phase Two (Gorillaz), Zombies, do ya thing, plastic beach, wobble street
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 01:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Noodle on his relationship with 2D throughout the years.





	Zen

**Author's Note:**

> I liked writing this, but it still feels too short.

I'm 10 years old and you are _fun!_

Skinny legs, high voice, tarpit eyes, and a  _boundless_ fascination for zombies. It is all I can to hold in excitement on discovering you are not dyed, missing only teeth, and are the most harmless one of all.

Though we cannot speak a word to each other there is little need. To our _great_ surprise. There is understanding if the other is curious, upset, hungry, or in dire need of a hug. You always smell of sweet things and this strange aroma which I cannot place (and, if Rochelle had a decision, never would). Spikes lay on your wrists and your hair. You are oddly tongue-tied whenever I ask about those pretty vases in your room. You take care to label certain items in the fridge.

You allow me to paint your nails and learn to braid your long blue ponytail. You have a gift for keyboards but light up when I play guitar. You dislike the music blared by the green one, and prefer reading me bedtime stories to arranging deceased animals. You seem anxious when I confront a zombie for the first time, then watch me kick through them like a field of daises. 

You’re always smiling. No matter if a demon tramples the game system or a bad-breathed bassist kicks you downstairs. The world is so cruel yet you remain so kind. Only when I'm upset do you falter, and only then to make me better. It does not make sense to me, but as I find my way to your room, and see you picking up the control bits, I help.

We play games I’d never heard of before, but so much is their fun! We dip our heads underwater to bite onto fruit. We chuck rocks at zombies from the roof of Kong. You throw me in the air to catch again and again. Upsy-something. I'd never done it before, but enjoyed it immensely. We both laughed. I kept asking you to do it again, but Rochelle worried you were going too high.

I name you Toochi.

I'm 13 and we are best friends.

On first sight, you rush up and scoop me right into the air. Still I am so small. Your cheek pressed against my head while you gave proclamations of badly missing me. It then turned out I had missed you…

Your surprise at my English is not all to be stunned about: our home lies in ruin, you have developed an ego in bad need of deflating, and Rochelle is emptier without a band mate. It is a new era and must be confronted head-on.

And so we practice, through demons and debris; cannibals and conformity; ghosts and gullible masses eager to please a charming monster. "Reject False Icons" becomes our message, enlightening the world of the prominent danger of hidden evils; mindless zombies passing as one of us.

Fame creates a beast of many natures. I fear it may be coming for us. The nights become long and loud and there is very little focus remaining on the music within our studio, the recording room, and (in Merde's case) the nearest closet. It is a descent of which the likes would make a demon laugh. Success is backfiring once again, though it appears this may end worse than before. It becomes harder and harder to reach you within depravity's grasp. I am not sure if it is proper to continue on.

Your vocals serve as a fitting back-up as I crush another undead skull.

I was never sure how I contracted such an impediment, though if it was anything to do with Merde's hygiene… You sit at my bedside and reminisce about your father's remedies while Rochelle fills an ice pack. My head turns when I feel a cold weight upon my head. One large warm hand begins to stroke my arm, and your speech gently levels off. Rochelle begins humming, but it is a high voice which lulls me to sleep. 

 

We usually stay up late watching horror movies which make us laugh rather than cry. We chuck popcorn at the other and once one landed in the gap between your teeth, which had us laughing the more. The clock is blurry and I feel azure spikes on the way up the stairs, realizing you are carrying me. You pause once by my bedroom, giving a gapped smile, and wish goodnight.

Your ponytail sways as you walk. 

We’re in a cramped tourbus that smells of ash and impatience. You flick a dead cigarette through the window and I’m sitting across you, chin-in-palms.

You have marks on your neck and pills in your pocket. I’m almost old enough to know what they mean.

You look down, and ask if I want a butterscotch.

You call me your little love.

There’s a maniac trying to kill us and no one knows who. Merde charges down an empty highway, cursing the entire time, the three of us ducking under cover. Rochelle has taken refuge in the bathroom, as it was there she was when it started, but you and I are huddled under the table. Perhaps it was imagination but I can hear your heart beating. It was frightening in its pace. Every other moment, you shakily peek to see if whoever they are is finally gone, only to shirk down with a help as a shot rings out and Merde makes a sharp turn.

Throughout this chaos, my mind does wonder; could this adversary truly be here for _all_ of us…

A tire blows out and Merde swears over her shoulder again. You grab me close, tucked under chin, and promise everything will be alright.

Nothing was more liberating than to be in the open air. The whole world is passing by. The wind is warm and sweet.

There I am watching you three below, an arm hooked around the fence, all that is keeping me on ground. The island goes higher and higher, excitement and fulfillment joining along. If there is any trepidation over recent dangers, it is drowned out by a great margin.

Once in awhile I’ll catch a glimpse of you roaming that foul place. I never liked it in there. I never thought you would go, too…

The clouds are thick and noisy, and I like to believe it’s just wind.

Everything is on fire. I run, trying to make all movement swift and unpredictable. Roars that are not thunder call out and another wall tumbles to a bright heap.  Somewhere far off, I think I hear singing.

My eyes burn, my body bruised, and yet there is no choice but to stay. My life flashes by like an old TV screen.

Sometime during the night, or so it looked, the noises stopped. I wander out.

It is of no use. I try to make it again as the world tips over. Smoke is thick and time is not. I grab tight and hold, knowing what is to happen.

I don’t need to listen to hear you scream.

I’m 16 years old and you’re beautiful.

It has been three long years. I’d been through trials no 13-year-old should see. Terrors best not dwelled upon. After so long, so it seemed, I return to what had been Kong, and am filled with only more questions. Years pass, and finally I hear your voice.

On an airwave.

What was thought to be a momentous reunion, only triggers an onslaught of anger. Anger and…

Memories.

Two lanky legs, a clumsy gait, a gapped smile.

Amazement with my date of birth.

Old pictures of blue eyes and brown hair.

Another woman welcoming me on a singing lesson, calling herself "Dana."

Being teased about your brain, and only growing puzzled as we have my own.

Things have changed quite a lot indeed _._

You are…different. You look the same, of course, but something isn't there. You lack the enthusiasm and luster of making the first two albums, and there is no happy-go-lucky charm to be found on your expression, or if it is still there, it's waned. Your face is very troubled and you look as if you haven't slept in days.

I know the feeling.

I can’t believe it's you. Though you are the same person, and I remember you the same as before, your lips are candy floss pink and your hair resembles a clear sky.

There comes a thick rumbling underneath and I look below…

The earth is hot and sticky. My eyes are dry and hard. I’ve come a long journey, and I need to see you.

But one obstacle stands in the way…

There is warmth and darkness and you are heard moving around. It’s quiet, none of us rising so soon by nature. You are off to a job you don't necessarily hate, but could do without; it needs no stating. Sometimes I leave something for you in the fridge, hoping Merde doesn’t get it first. I wanted to disguise it but you weren’t very intuitive. Many times you peer in to check up. Sometimes I'm awake. On such occasions, no apologies. Just fond glances and a shutting door. 

I’m still your little love, but…I’m not so little anymore. 

You’re 39 years old and this has waited long enough.

Happy birthday, Toochi.

Love Noodle.


End file.
